The Affair (30 page)

“When?” I wanted specifics. I could see this dragging out for weeks.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I need to know.”

“Okay. She’ll be gone by Friday. I promise.”

I don’t know if I was right to extract this reluctant concession when I probably should be working on acceptance and trust.
But I can’t stand Diana, and her sudden sexual interest in me gives me the willies. Whether Roger fulfills his promise remains
to be seen. In the meantime, I called Alyssa; her father told me she’s on vacation until Monday. I didn’t leave a message
but plan to call her first thing next week. I can’t wait!

’Til next time,

Petey started day camp at the Y today. I spent last night loading up his backpack: sunblock, cap, insect repellent, swimsuit,
towel, clean underwear, peanut butter on whole wheat, two drinks. When I picked him up at the end of the day, he told me I’d
forgotten to pack a snack. “Everybody had something except me,” he said. Luckily, the counselors keep a stash of cookies for
just these sorts of emergencies. I know it’s minor in the scheme of things, but I still felt awful and wanted to make it up
to Petey somehow.

So Roger and I took him for ice cream after dinner. We sat on the bench outside the Dairy Queen and watched the lightning
bugs hover over the grass. It was a small but perfect moment.

I overslept and missed my eleven o’clock! This is unforgivable. It would have been my second session with Molly, who is, quite
possibly, the unluckiest person I have ever met; in a span of thirty-six months Molly lost her job, discovered that her husband
was having an affair, underwent a double mastectomy, and lost her grown son to AIDS. She hadn’t known he was sick, hadn’t
known he was gay. She’s on four different medications for depression and stress. She told me I was her only hope.

And now I’ve had to put off seeing Alyssa again.

When I got to the center around 2
P.M.
, I found a yellow Post-it from Cadence on my door. It said, simply, “See me.” I peeled off the note and examined it more
closely. All the letters were capitalized and the words were underscored. Twice. It reminded me of a teacher’s note, the kind
you’d find at the bottom of an essay test you fudged your way through. I wanted to ignore it. Screw Cadence and her notes,
I thought. If she wants to
see me
so badly, let her drag her fancy ass down the hall to my office.

But that’s just not my style, I’m afraid. Knowing Cadence needed to see me made it impossible to focus on anything else. I
had to know what she wanted with me.

Was it the appointment I’d missed? Was there a problem with the grant I’d written for the eating disorders clinic? Or—and
it gave me palpitations just contemplating it—had she found out that I’d broken into her e-mail account?

I had to know. I stopped at the bathroom to make sure I looked more self-assured than I felt, then walked briskly to her office
and rapped on the open door. I tried to make it a sharp, professional, almost-militaristic
knock instead of a soft, tentative, scared-shitless one.

Cadence was on the phone. Though I stood in plain view, she continued talking as if she hadn’t seen me. I debated whether
to walk in and sit myself down, or simply leave. I decided to stand there. She looked up, then waved me away with her free
hand. I didn’t move. “Hold on a sec,” she said into the phone. Her smile, clearly reserved for the person on the other end,
instantly vanished as she addressed me.

“Later. Okay?”

I wanted to
kill
her. Who did she think she was talking to, one of the summer interns?! “Actually, that’s not okay.”

She looked up. “Excuse me?”

From some hidden spring, I found it. Courage. “I said, ‘Actually, that’s not okay.’ “ I pulled myself up straighter. I watched
her nostrils flare. She ended her phone conversation, wheeled her seat back, and folded her arms, appraising me with a subtle
look of amusement. I said, “You wanted to see me. I’m here now. Later isn’t good for me. I’ve got a client.”

As soon as I uttered the word “client” I knew intuitively what would come next. I had just set myself up. I could feel it.

“I’m so glad you plan to be there. For your client.” She didn’t say anything else. She just stared at me. We both knew what
she was talking about.

“So, what did you need to see me about?” I asked, suddenly not so brazen.

She picked up the phone and swiveled her chair so that I was now facing the back of her head. “That will be all,” she said.
“Please close the door behind you.”

Typical Cadence: with minimal effort she had produced
maximum results. I hate that woman. God, how I totally despise her.

Yesterday turned out to be the day I finally confronted Alyssa. All day long I imagined how things would turn out. Would she
recognize me? Would she try to throw me out of the house? Deny everything? Get violent?

My last session ended at 1:50. I punched in Alyssa’s number and waited. I had a plan; I would pretend to be some kind of delivery
service, maybe a florist, just to make sure she was going to be home later that afternoon. The phone rang twice. An airy,
“Hello?”

“Alyssa Elkins, please.”

“That’s me!”

“I have a delivery. Will you be there in fifteen minutes?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Thank you.”

“Wait! What kind of—”

I hung up, grabbed my briefcase, and ran out the door. As I pulled into her driveway I saw the screen door fly open. I slowly
walked up the drive, feeling like I was finally at the denouement of some cheesy made-for-TV movie.

Alyssa was wearing white linen drawstring pants and a white tank top, no bra. I tried not to look at her nipples. Clearly
she was anticipating flowers, something lovely from a satisfied customer, perhaps. She looked at me expectantly, searched
my empty arms. The little nitwit was obviously confused.

“Delivery?” she asked.

“No.” I stepped onto her porch. “Do you know who I am?”

She stared blankly. “Uh, census?”

“Roger’s wife.”

She gasped. “What do you want?”

I had rehearsed this moment in my head four thousand times. I looked at my watch. “Sometime before five o’clock today, your
lawyer will call me to tell me you are dropping your lawsuit.”

Her eyes bugged out. “What?”

“And then he will fax me a letter confirming your decision.”

“What are you talking about? I’m not dropping the lawsuit.” She turned and put her hand on the screen door handle. She wasn’t
wearing underwear either. I thought of those lean, young legs wrapped around my husband’s waist and suddenly wished I had
a stronger weapon than words. (And yes, I do realize that this is the second time in a week I’ve contemplated killing someone.)

“In that case, I guess I’ve got my work cut out for me this afternoon. Because as soon as I pull out of your driveway, I’m
heading straight to Jan Dawson’s house to tell her how you whored your way through college.”

Alyssa released the handle and turned to face me. I continued, “You do know who Jan Dawson is, don’t you? The head of the
school board?” Alyssa nodded weakly. Things were going even better than I’d imagined. She looked like she was going to throw
up.

“And I guess after I talk to Jan, I’ll have a talk with the news editor at the
Morning Herald
and let her know that the new kindergarten teacher happens to be a hooker.”

Just then Alyssa’s father called from somewhere in the house. “Everything okay out there, dear?”

She yelled back, “It’s fine, Daddy.” She reached behind the screen and pulled the door shut.

I stuck to my script. “You know what I really love about e-mail?”

She didn’t say anything but kept her eyes on me.

“I love how you can reach hundreds, even thousands of people in an instant. Like, I can make up a recipient list of all the
teachers in your school, and all the parents whose kids go to that school, and all the news editors at all the TV and radio
stations in town. And then I can send a message about anything—you being a whore, for instance—to all those people, just…
like … that.” I snapped my fingers for effect. She jerked back as if I’d pulled a trigger.

I looked at my watch again. “I’ve got to pick up my kid from camp.” I started down the porch steps, then turned again to face
her. She was literally trembling. I loved it.

“So, shall we be expecting a call from your lawyer this afternoon, then?”

She nodded her head.

“Very good!” I flashed a smile. “You have a nice day.”

I was home by 3:30. At 4:03 the phone rang. I checked the Caller ID. It was Bill Kalman—Alyssa’s lawyer. I told Roger to pick
up the phone. “You’re about to get some very good news,” I said, almost delirious with pleasure. I watched a smile spread
slowly across his face as he held the phone to his ear. When he hung up, I asked him, “Is it over?”

“It’s over.” He hugged me. “It’s over.”

True to his word, Roger ended Diana’s stint as his research assistant today. When I pulled into the garage
she was loading a cardboard box into her trunk. She straightened up and stuck out a hand.

“No hard feelings, babe,” she said. I didn’t know how to respond. What, exactly, had Roger told her about the circumstances
surrounding her dismissal? I shook her hand. She held on a little too long. “Let’s stay in touch, okay?”

No, not okay, I thought. “Yeah,” I said.

“Maybe lunch sometime soon?”

“Maybe.”

Diana hopped into her car and backed out of the driveway. She grinned and winked as she drove away. I’m relieved to see her
go but have a nagging feeling that I’m not done with her. Or perhaps I should say, she’s not done with me.

’Til next time,

I have just endured the most unpleasant dinner party of my life. It was at Evan and Lucy Child’s magnificent house in the
hills. (Evan was one of the producers of Roger’s play, Lucy is a landscape architect). I wore the black fake-silk outfit I
bought at Ann Taylor Loft, the silver jewelry Roger gave me on Mother’s Day, and a pair of sexy strappy black sandals. Thanks
to low humidity and jumbo Velcro rollers, my hair behaved. I looked really good, if I may say so myself. Among the guests
was a famous actor who I will refer to as T. (I can’t bring myself to use his full name; I’m convinced the guy’s unstable,
and if this story ever got out, I’d fully expect him to come after me with either a lawyer
or a semiautomatic weapon. So I’m not taking any chances.) I’d seen most of T’s movies and, frankly, was thrilled to find
myself seated across from him. Since he tends to play good guys in his movies, I naively assumed he was one.

For the first half hour, T simply watched me. I pretended to listen to Lucy talk but really I was focused on T, feeling his
eyes on me, wondering what he was thinking. I found it flattering at first, here’s this famous actor staring at little me,
a non-celebrity who (well-behaved hair notwithstanding) pales in comparison to his magnificent wife, a dancer and choreographer.

All of a sudden he says, loudly, “Are those your real tits, or what?” Everyone stops talking. T’s wife looks embarrassed,
but says nothing. I pretend I haven’t heard him but inside I am dying. When I don’t respond, T says it again, but more loudly
this time: “ARE THOSE YOUR REAL TITS??” I should have ignored him but couldn’t.

“Yes, they’re all mine,” I tell him. “Why do you ask?”

“And how ’bout your hair. You dye it?”

I feel my throat tighten. “Yeah, to cover the gray.” Why did I feel compelled to respond to this jackass? If he’d been an
ordinary guy, I would have rolled my eyes and told him to mind his own business. And everyone at the table would have told
him to shut up. But because he was a movie star, we indulged him. My husband laughed nervously, our hostess looked the other
way, and nobody tried to change the subject. “So,” he persisted. “how old are you, anyway?”

Was this a trick question? I cleared my throat. “I’m thirty-five.”